The viper, the bear and the assassin
by ashhead
Summary: The assassin has a job to do, and the viper and the bear are it. (tm)
1. The Assassin

_Disclaimer- nope- not mine. Please R+R. This is hopefully the first of three parts._

**The Assassin**

Martin, not that it was his name, but he found that it helped to think of yourself in terms of the name you were assuming, was finding it very difficult to concentrate. He had been here all night, and then several nights before that as well, and tiredness was beginning to creep over the barrier he kept between himself and his working self.

Tonight was supposed to have been the night, he actually only needed to be here tonight, but like others who worked in the same field as he did, he took a fascination in his work that was beyond what was necessary. He enjoyed getting to know people, especially if he was going to kill them. He enjoyed knowing that he was going to be the last person ever to see them, the last person that they would ever see. He loved watching the life fade from them, knowing all about them, but them knowing nothing about him. And he figured that if he had to live in the shadows, letting no one in, he may as well enjoy himself every once in a while.

But tonight was not going well, the creeping tiredness signified that. All he had to do was go in, one swift movement over both of them, and then leave. Not hard, not even remotely difficult. He'd get his money and the people who were paying him would whatever thrill it was that they were seeking from their deaths. He'd been ready to go, knife in his hand, but the bear had left just as he was preparing to leave. He'd stormed out in a fit of rage, slamming doors and screaming. The viper had simmered in the corner, she was still there now, eyes fixed onto nowhere, sleep a million miles away.

They weren't called that, he had their real names somewhere on paper, but he didn't care to remember them. He always named his victims, almost in the same way that he created a new identity for himself with every new job. He doubted anyone knew his real identity anymore, and none of those who did would recognise him anyway.

The viper was the female of the pair, and she was fierce one. He needed to be wary of her, she lurked, saw everything, but waited until she could pounce, waited until she could be sure of effect. He'd seen her with the bear, watching him, she would wait until she could be sure she could make him pay, but when she did, he wouldn't survive it.

The bear appeared the more dangerous of the two, but he was so blinded by rage that he would be easy to get by. He reminded Martin of bears caught in traps, well of any animals caught in traps really, but bears were the animal the male reminded him of. He was caught on something, unable to get past it, but every time anyone went to help, he'd swipe them away. Martin had been quite amused by him.

He was not, however, amused right now. In fact he was furious. By leaving, the bear had messed everything up. Martin regarded his job as an art, planning the kill was almost as enjoyable as carrying it out. And although plans could be changed, he hated having to do that.

Oh, it would be easy. The viper would have to sleep soon, and then he would get her, one movement of his knife and she'd be dead. But the bear, he wasn't here, and that created a problem. It had to be done tonight, and Martin was hardly up for gallivanting across the city in search of him. He'd return, but that meant something that Martin shuddered even to consider. He would have to use a gun.

Settling down once more to wait, Martin promised himself several days in bed after this. He deserved it, after all, he'd be a million dollars better off tomorrow.


	2. The Viper

Part 2- the Viper.  
Pretty please review if you're reading

Michelle had been sat there on that same couch for so long, everything simmering inside of her. She wasn't the type to let things explode, and normally that worked towards her advantage, allowing her to control situations and remain authoritative even when she herself was unsure. But Tony, he just had a way of getting under her skin, he always had, and she could feel herself faltering over the edge of her control.

What was she supposed to do? He was drunk every time she saw him, and his words would be laced with acid, his normal charisma replaced by dripping sarcasm and a general depression. He wasn't threatening towards her, that wasn't his style, it was more just a sense of disdain and annoyance. The closest she'd gotten to him since he'd been released from jail was a reluctant kiss in front of an expecting audience. He was a free man and his pretty wife was waiting there for him, he should be happy, he should want to kiss her. Instead, she could feel him bristling against her touch, eager to be as far away as possible.

She hadn't expected it to be easy, she new what prison would do to people like Tony, people with ideals, morals, people who wouldn't just say, "yes". But she had expected him to try. She'd lined up job after job for him, telling herself each time he was fired that it just wasn't right for him, but that if she could find something that was, he would somehow fit back into life again.

But she was starting to reconsider, she didn't think he could fit back into life again, at least not her life, and she new for sure that she couldn't fit into his, he didn't want her to. She'd become a crutch for him, a way for him to justify his actions. She went to work everyday, so there was no need for him to. He'd just come out of a very traumatic situation, he needed time to adjust, and she needed to give him space. Not that she was giving him space anymore, she was avoiding him, avoiding everything about him.

But tonight, tonight was different. He was here, drunk again, slumped on the couch in front of some tv program. She was late home from work again, pounding headache and painful feet, looking for attention she knew wasn't going to be there. But instead of sinking into the couch- allowing angry words to simmer inside of her, so little of what she felt being allowed to slip from her, after all it was her he'd gone to prison for, she'd done something entirely different. She'd caught sight of herself in the mirror.

Dark hair was in disarray, half curls escaping in all directions. She'd ripped it out on the way home, trying to prevent the headache that already had control of her. Makeup was still meticulously applied, but nothing could hide the exhaustion in her eyes. Her tiny form was more or less swamped from the coat she'd hidden herself in. It had been a present several years ago, he failed to see how he should sympathise with her perpetual coldness when she insisted upon wearing such a ridiculously flimsy jacket. She wore it now to hide from him more than from the cold.

Seeing herself like this, a hectic mess in the middle of such disarray, something just snapped. She finally saw that she couldn't go on living like this, wouldn't. Her words to him, which before had so gentle in suggesting things, with the occasional snide comment when control wavered, became harsh. She owed him a lot, and she wasn't going to repay that debt by letting him drink himself to death. He had gone to prison for her, which was a pretty clear indication that he didn't want her to be hurt, so he could be damned if she was going to let him continue to pull her apart.

She wasn't even sure of what she was saying to him, her words an incoherent blur as everything she'd been feeling for the last six months just spilt out. Anger crept through her voice, and he understood that perhaps this was it. But she became too angry too quickly, and he left before she could get to the end of her train of thoughts, to the point of all her screaming, all of her pain. She loved him and would help him in any way that she could.

But he never heard that, and her mind never got that far, still stuck on the endless list of all the things he'd done wrong, all the ways she'd tried to help him and all the ways he'd refused.

So she'd collapsed onto the sofa, perfectly upright, no sign of any emotion. She sat there, unaware of anything but her anger and pain that was locked so deep it couldn't even let her cry. She was still sat there, simmering away, when his knife entered her stomach, his gloved fingers pressing into his mouth, her hair catching and pulling as she fell backwards.

Twisting agonies of pain paralysed her as her eyes searched for what had done this to her. In her mouth she tasted the salty warmth of blood, and wondered if she'd hit her head when she'd fallen, or if she was that badly injured.

Behind her, her assailant played with the knife that had damaged her, glinting the blood on it in the moonlight. She wasn't dead, not yet. He wondered if she would be when the bear arrived. But he smiled anyway, either way, he'd caught the viper.


	3. The Bear

Warning for some swearing. Also- Tony's a bit OC, mainly because its fun to write. One more after this, will hopefully come sooner (sorry its taken so long)

The Bear

Tony hadn't yet decided if he was actually going to go home. Her words had hurt him, pierced to the core. He hadn't realised that she'd become such a bitch, hadn't seen that in her before. He'd gone to prison for her, given everything so that she could live her stupid little life in peace, and now she was blaming him for not getting a job, for wanting to drink the pain out of his mind.

Who was going to want to employ a traitor? Sure, there had been offers, people who owed Michelle, but he wasn't going to take some charity job, not when he knew that the people around him were going to see him in the same way everyone else did. Everyone but Michelle, or so he thought. She obviously saw him in the same light. That hadn't been something he had considered, that his own wife might condemn him for saving her, but quite clearly she did.

He had been sat here for a while now, not knowing quite where else to go. He couldn't go to a bar, not after what she had said. He wasn't an alcoholic, and he was completely able to cope without a drink, proving this to himself by being here. But still, his head spun and his body called out for it, anything to suppress the memories.

He was everything everyone hated. Not only had he been a "cop" as far as the idiots he shared his cell with were concerned, but he was also a traitor, which meant that everyone had a reason to hate him. Taunts whispered in his ears at night, unimaginable threats that threw shivers through him. Punches dealt in a busy corridor where no one could see, bruises thick on his body, with no one to tell. Who was going to care what happened to him? The jeering if he did complain was worse than dealing with it. Not that it was the pain that got to him, not as much as the threats. To his exhausted body, the threats to those he cared about, those who he had sought to protect, had been far worse than anything he could have imagined. He still dreamt about it, the knife entering her flesh as he stood watching, unable to help. Steven Saunders had given him those nightmares, but prison had made it an obsession.

But he had figured that it would be different when he got out, if he ever did, regardless of Jack's assurances, he didn't actually think it would happen. He'd presumed that his life would be like before, that he'd go to work, come home, sleep, read, breathe, all of it without being watched, hated, condemned. But it hadn't happened. Everywhere he went their eyes drove into his flesh, whispered voices marking him as the traitor. And his own wife had become his jailor. Uncaring, oblivious to him, not reaching to him as a person, merely as a duty she had to fulfil, she watched every move he made, calculating with her eyes, telling him what to do, not trusting him in the slightest.

He couldn't take it anymore, couldn't take her, any of them. He couldn't go back, that life was not what he wanted. He wanted to lay on the couch, drowning in beer cans, watching a crap team get the crap kicked out of them and pretending to care. That was the life he craved for; an easy lay somewhere nearby, not wanting more than a fck, not wanting him to be the person she remembered. He couldn't do that, couldn't be that man, wasn't anything like the person she wanted, the sham she had believed in.

He would go back in the morning, after she had gone to work, get his stuff and leave. He could find somewhere to go, there were always places. Never mind the fact that he was currently sat on a roundabout in a park, spinning himself round absently under a black sky, watching the moon glint off the metal. He would find somewhere.

He had to, he couldn't stay there, couldn't bear it, he would explode, and that would hurt her. He didn't want to hurt her, not anymore than he already had.


	4. Ending

It was the classic case of a murder-suicide. The husband walks in on the wife doing something he dislikes, generally something like breathing, and she ends up with a knife through her chest. Then overcome with grief, the husband repeats the protest by taking his own life. Tony fit the profile perfectly. He was an ex-con, so anything he did was regarded with suspicion, but there was more than that. Tony had become violent in prison after an incident involving Michelle, which was why Martin had been hired, a revenge for the incident that had left a man unable to walk.

Threatening Michelle was never a good idea, she was sharp enough to look after herself without any problems. But prison develops paranoia's, and Tony's were worse than most. His mind created every scenario his cellmate described in lavish detail, every agony she had had to endure. It was more than enough. The man had had no chance against Tony, fuelled by months of pent up rage, and it was surprising that only the man's legs had been destroyed.

Of course, no one had been able to blame Tony, the circumstances under which the incident had occurred were beyond his control, video footage revealing his agony as much as his mind had illuminated his wife's. But it had built a profile, and that was more than enough to get this him condemned for the crime Martin was about to frame him for.

The assassin was just waiting for his Bear to get back from his drinking spree, a drunken Bear would be no challenge. He only hoped he did it soon so that he could see his wife's last moments, because they weren't very far away.

When the Bear did arrive, morning was already lighting the sky. Martin was worried his Barbados holiday was going to be disturbed. He didn't like it when things got disturbed. Life was supposed to flow properly, it was supposed to be an art, breaks in this were particularly irritating. It was perhaps this annoyance that broke his plan apart.

Tony was filled with a defensive anger, accepting that he was at fault, but hating everyone for witnessing him being in the wrong. Anger manifested itself through fists thrown at a sofa. A sofa was an acceptable target, his fists never flew at anything else, but the sofa still shuddered with the weight of his fury.

Martin felt the fists on the sofa that he had been waiting behind. He knew then that he had failed. The noise was enough to attract attention, and it would cause an investigation when their bodies were finally found. Murder-suicide would be accepted, but there would be those who would know, friends of Tony who would have contacts. It would put his client at risk, and that constituted a failure.

Martin felt his knife enter flesh, that unique joy, with warm blood instantly coursing down his arm. He positioned the man and fled, taking all traces with him, but still recognising his failure.

Tony felt his wife's blood under his head, the sensation strangely muted by the numbness in his skin. He assumed her dead, but even his numbness was defeated by the hope he felt when cold fingers grasped at him. She was alive.

He knew full well the phone lines would be cut, but his mobile had been given to him when he left prison, and it had assumed its customary, but rather unnecessary, position the pocket inside his jacket. It still had Jack's number on speed-dial. It wasn't required, but to alter it would be to admit that his life had altered, and he still clung to it for the life it represented. It didn't take much to push the button that called Jack before he collapsed onto the floor. His blood mingled with his wife's, messing up her perfectly clean home just a little bit more than he had already. Somehow he didn't think she would mind. He'd ask her tomorrow, he was just too tired now. His fingers clasped tightly to hers even as they loaded him into the ambulance.


End file.
